No matter how you cut it, this is happiness. #hipster #weddings (Taken with Instagram)
I’ve forgotten what sleep feels like since my every attempt at it within the past few days has been marred by the faint tease that comes with my subconscious—willingly or not—conjuring images of us being together again and being happy. One image in particular is especially haunting: I’m wearing a lace wedding dress, walking down the aisle with my mom’s companion, and my eyes hone in on your face and I am both pained and joyed by the look of utter jubilation on your face—the face I imagined you would have felt if the feelings I’ve always harbored for you were mutual. And then my dog barks, or my door snaps open, or I hear the faint voices of my family starting their day and talking in the living room, and I am jolted awake. Immediately, like breath explored by a newborn as they are brought into this world and feel life for the first time, my gasps for air smooth and then evolve into panicked respiration and I can feel my vocal chords vibrate into the sharp agony of tears and cries as I realize that what I had just seen was a mere dream, a cruel trick played by my mind.
As a remedy to this solution, my mother and sister have come under the impression that the employment of a prescription drug meant to treat those afflicted by anxiety disorders would suffice in lieu of purchasing a “crude” pill like Tylenol PM or Nyquil (different expressions of acetominophine that, if taken in excess, will certainly kill but if done right have the ability to heal the common cold and even pains associated with wisdom teeth extraction). Half-pills though they were, I had difficulty experiencing the effects of the drug. I couldn’t tell if my tears and cries subsiding was brought on by the pills or if it came as simply as exhaustion. I am slated to take another pill—a full one, I think—tonight at the behest of my mother, upon the strict condition that I eat, of course.
That’s another thing: I’ve lost my appetite. What was once nourishing and delectable lost its color and all of its flavor. My first attempt at a meal was—well, I can’t even remember. My mom tried to peel an orange and before I could finish peeling the excess skin to my own satisfaction, she quickly spat it out and the battle was over before it even had a chance. They’ve tried to take me out to dinner and I had ordered roast chicken at one of the more expensive restaurants in town, with a side of truffle fries, or french fries sprinkled with truffles, and could barely pick at it. Even the skin looked disgusting. Of course, being a once-four-star-restaurant, the servers come when not needed and explain, in misguided accuracy, the details of the menu and always ask if I’d like more water. Before our main meals, they had served us this cucumber pomegranate appetizer, “compliments of the chef!” and afterward had given us the treat of melt-in-your-mouth watermelon cotton candy. Delicious as it may have been, I felt almost offended: I could barely touch my favorite part of any poultry dish and now she’s asking me to consume pure, pink sugar? No thanks.
I tried to eat again today and when I garner enough courage to pick up my knife and my fork to begin the dissection of the meal graciously cooked at my request, I lose interest. Smell infuriates me. I have a bite and suddenly, I am not hungry again. It’s as though I were just testing the water out before taking a dive in the deep end of a pool and recoiling, instead, to the comfort of the pool-side chair. (For those who don’t know, I can’t swim and am terrified of pools, so I suppose this is an apt-enough example). Losing my appetite is a catch-22: my palette is defeated by one bite of my meal and when I don’t eat, which has been most of the time, I begin to feel faint, dizzy, light-headed and all-too weak. It has also proven to be quite the ordeal when, upon finishing a good cry, I try to breathe and simply cannot and my breath instead hides somewhere in my chest and I can feel the quiet activation of my gag reflex, though there is nothing to expel. And I run to the bathroom, my hands clutching my stomach and desperately searching for something to keep me stable, and I puke. Or I try to, at least. I don’t have anything to give to this porcelain god except my stomach bile, and the last time that happened, I had experienced the spins (one reason I vehemently refuse alcohol and embrace more Earthen-substances).
I’ve had 4 hours to split over two days and that’s hardly enough for a satisfied nap for one day. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I’ve been crying since the news broke and I’ve felt as if my heart has been stabbed multiple times and my entire body aches. I yearn for your touch and I sometimes desperately wish, with my entire being, that you could take it back and remember why you loved me in the first place. Maybe the jolt of your former love will revive your heart into beating in sync with mine. But I know that this is not the case and as much as my body is in denial, my heart and mind have finally come to accept this fate.
But still—I’ve told you once before and I’ll tell you again—there will always be a space for you to come back if you want to. I’ll love you to the very end, SB.